


it's that time of year

by orphan_account



Category: Dream Team (Video Blogging RPF), Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Dialogue Heavy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, George-centric, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Wilbur Soot - Freeform, dreams spotify, gratuitous use of christmas carols, i dont beta cause this is embarrassing, researching UK train lines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27585287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: ...when the world falls in love,George just wants to have a good Christmas, one where his parents are proud of him. On the train to their house, he finds a solution. His name is Clay and he plays dumb Christmas carols and god, George's parents better like him.“Every time I go home, they tell me it’s So Okay that I’m not in a relationship.”“And why aren’t you?” George asked. Maybe he could take his turn as therapist. Or maybe he just wanted a little schadenfreude.“It’s just not for me. Marriage is a sham. Dating is like getting the life sucked out of you and smiling about it.” Clay offered with a shrug. He was grinning, but George didn’t think he was kidding.“Wow. And I’m the weird one cause I don’t like Christmas.”
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 89
Kudos: 280





	1. Baby please come home

**Author's Note:**

> hey! i was listening to a fuck ton of christmas carols and this came out. this is for fun, don't be weird to any CCs ab it please.
> 
> it's going to be mainly fluff :))

Outside his window, the snow was turned to greyish slush, and spat out from vehicles as they sped by. Everything this Christmas seemed half-baked.  
He was a half-hour away from his parent’s house and he felt so completely out of his depth. They hadn’t even had a chance to needle him with questions, and he was already plucking up lies.  
How was he supposed to tell them he’d broken up with Quinn. For all they knew, they were happily approaching a sixth month anniversary.  
George’s smile had long since settled into a grimace and he turned his eyes away from the grey of outside.  
Stuffed in seats too small for winter coats, the Christmas eve passengers of the train all looked similarly pleased to be on public transport. George focused first on two red-faced children, sausaged into blue and red puffy jackets, noses running rampant. He cringed and moved on to who he assumed was their father.  
The man was leaning away and whispering harshly into his phone, eyebrows drawn down. Holidays sure did bring people together.

Finally, George let his eyes fall on his seatmate. He had his hood up and a scarf up to his straight nose. He was staring intently at his phone, swiping quickly. George leaned a little into his space and saw a rapidly assembling playlist. He squinted to make out the title:  
_Possessed by the demon called Christmas_

George let out a puff of air, barely a laugh, but the man turned his head.  
He fixed George with an amused stare, the corners of his eyes crinkling. They were surrounded by blonde-tipped eyelashes and George knew he was staring too.

  
“That’s festive.” He pointed down at the stranger’s phone.

  
“It’s the truth.” He had pulled his scarf down and George grinned. He was American.

  
“It is a bit demonic isn’t it? Cultish.”

“Very. And I’m thoroughly indoctrinated. You?” The man replied.

“Not especially. Consider me a non-believer.”

“What?” The stranger’s face contorted in a sort of disbelief. “I mean I get it, fuck the capitalist machine, but really?”

“I don’t hate it. I just...”

The man seemed to really look at him then, and George turned away, feeling seen. “There’s got to be something about it that you like.”

George mulled it over. “Sure. Yeah.” Silence followed and he went on. “I like watching other people love Christmas.” He felt warmth spread over his cheeks and smoothed a hand down his jacket. “Like, seeing some kid staring at a toy display. I like that.”

“You’re a people watcher.”

“Well.” George was taken-aback. “If you want to call it that. Yes.”

There was a quiet, pleased sounding laugh, and the stranger leaned back into the seat. “Honest too. Where are you headed? I can’t imagine stalking people is the only thing on your schedule.”

“Hold on!” George said indignantly. “Stalking? Stalking is not on the table.”

“Fine then. Plans?”

George debated lying for only a second. “I’m visiting my parents.” He said.

“And you sound so happy about that!” His eyes were green. And he was laughing at him.

George scowled a little but couldn’t keep an uneasy smile from brimming up. “Yes, well.” He let out a breath. “It’s just that I think it’s going to be a very disappointing Christmas for them.”

“How so?”

“They’re expecting to meet my partner.”

“The man looked pointedly at the seat he was occupying. “Invisible?”

“Cheater.”

“Invisible would be less disappointing. You should go with that.”

George had half a heart to push the man into the aisle, but he laughed instead. “Right. Will do. I’m George by the way, since we’re baring our souls and all that.”

“Clay.”

\--

“Doesn’t it suck how we can want to run from our families but impress them at the same time?”

George lifted his head from the game he was tapping at. Clay had his head tipped back, and George had thought he’d fallen asleep. “I don’t want to impress mine.” George replied.

“You do, a little.” Clay needled, a grin poking up.

“With my invisible significant other.” George groaned

“That’s pretty impressive to me! The first invisible person and you’re dating them.”

“Was. Was dating them.”

“Oh god, are you still hung up on it?” Clay’s smile quickly turned to disbelief and George wanted to duck and hide.

“It was six months.”

“In an entire life-time! You’re not a disappointment just because one relationship fucked you over.” George met Clay’s intense stare, unsure what to do with all this unbridled good intention.

He huffed a breath and turned to look out the window, which was altogether less aneurysm inducing. The city had faded to farmland, wide and expansive and covered in patchwork snow. George’s eye followed down a laneway where it split two fields, catching only a glimpse of the brown barn at its end.

“I just hate the way I know they’re going to look at me. All this anticipation, and I’m alone.” George said finally.

“You’re not. You’ve got them, right?”

George let that depressing thought hang in the air. At least he’d always have Mum and Dad. God. And when he was 40 and alone still, daddy and mumsy would still be there. He cringed.

“And what about you, Clay? Isn’t there some obscenely large Christmas tree you need to be decorating?”

“Because I’m American? Ha.”

George turned to fix Clay with a deadpan stare. “Well?”

“I’m on my way to a meeting actually.”

George’s mouth dropped open a little as he took in his seatmate. Clay, in his green puffer jacket and disgustingly plaid scarf. “What, like for work? On Christmas eve?” He didn’t look like the sort to be working through the holidays.

“It’s on the 28th actually, but Christmas flights are cheaper, so I made a trip out of it.”

“Since when are flights cheaper?”

“I dunno. I don’t book my own flights, that’s just what they told me.”

George’s surprise turned sour. “What the fuck?” Clay at least had the sense to look embarrassed. “You don’t-“ Clay’s backpack was discarded at his feet, slowly soaking up the melted snow on the train floor. “Who are you?”

“Clay, I already told you that.” His smile was sheepish.

“Geez, no wonder you don’t know about being a disappointment. You probably just have someone to do all that for you.” George’s brows were drawn down and he quickly turned back to his window. He liked the window, it didn’t surprise him.

“No, I’m afraid it’s my exclusive honor to disappoint my own parents.” Clay’s voice was even, but there was something missing. Humor, George thought.

There was silence for a while before George felt something tap his shoulder. He turned to stare at the proffered earbud, tinny Christmas music echoing out into the train compartment. Clay held it out to him like some token of apology and George took it reluctantly.

_Snow’s coming down,_  
_I’m watching it fall,_  
_Lots of people around,_  
_Baby please come home._

Clay’s face was turned to his phone, but George caught the smile. It was small and private, like they shared a joke between them. George closed his eyes and let the song play, warmth spreading across his chest like pins and needles.

George cleared his throat a little. “Sorry for being a dick.”

“Sorry for being an ass.” Clay returned.

George laughed a little at that and tipped his head to look at Clay. He was staring back, and his face was so open. It was like he had nothing on his mind except this, right now. George felt at once seen and insignificant.

Was this something that happened often, did Clay play therapist to all his seatmates? Maybe that was his job that set up flights and meetings during Christmas. George smiled.

“I can’t say I know what it’s like to be cheated on, but I get it. The disappointment thing.” Clay spoke slowly. “Every time I go home, they tell me it’s So Okay that I’m not in a relationship.”

“And why aren’t you?” George asked. Maybe he could take his turn as therapist. Or maybe he just wanted a little schadenfreude.

“It’s just not for me. Marriage is a sham. Dating is like getting the life sucked out of you and smiling about it.” Clay offered with a shrug. He was grinning, but George didn’t think he was kidding.

“Wow. And I’m the weird one cause I don’t like Christmas.”

“You are.” Clay nodded seriously, the ghost of a smile creeping up. “I mean c’mon, do you even know any happily married people?”

“My Mom and Dad.” George narrowed his eyes.

“So that’s why you’re all freaked out about bringing someone home to them.”

“What? This is so not about me.” The dulcet tones of Mariah Carey created a sort of discordant backing tack and it only made George frown further.

“Sure it is. You’re afraid you’ll never find what they have.”

“And you’re afraid that you will!” George plucked the earbud out of his ear and dropped it in Clay’s lap.

Clay picked it back up and shoved it in his direction. “No. You don’t get to tune out of this. I’ll shut up, but the Christmas hypno-therapy stays on.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

_I don't want a lot for Christmas_  
_This is all I'm asking for_  
_I just wanna see my baby_  
_Standing right outside my door_

The rest of the train ride was underscored with an ever-changing playlist of Christmas music, and the wash of train noise. It was hard to pinpoint what the sounds were, but there was a sort of rushing and wooshing and the shift of Clay’s jeans where they brushed his own. He was still tapping away at his phone, and George imagined the playlist was well into the hundreds now.

George gripped the shared armrest tightly as the train clunked to a halt. Without even realizing, he’d reached his stop. He blinked and stood a little awkwardly, stooping under the overhead baggage and looking to Clay. “Erm, this is my stop.” He said quietly, dislodging the earbud and handing it back.

“Oh, of course.” Clay slid out of his seat and George squeezed past him into the aisle. “George,”

George stopped pulling at his luggage where it was caught behind the barrier. “Yes?” He replied.

“I’m sorry. I come on pretty strong.” Clay said, still standing, head knocking against the low ceiling.

“No, it’s really fine.” George said, looking him over again. He was more awkward like this, half-bent and apologetic. Any air of rich asshole that George had gotten earlier seemed gone for a second. “You know, I’m sure your parents feel lucky to have you. Seriously.” He said.

“And yours don’t?”

“I’m not…I’m not all that.” I’m not you, he wanted to say.

“Sure, you’re not, George.”

George looked away and gave a final tug at his luggage. It pried free and he stumbled back to ease it to the floor.

“I’ll think good thoughts for you in the New Year.” Clay said, and if that wasn’t a hallmark card.

“God, my mother would love you.” George laughed, squeezing the handle of his case a little tighter as an idea seized him.

“They usually do.” Clay said, arching an eyebrow. “Hard not to like all this.”

George turned away, a smile gripping him. He started down the compartment a few steps then stopped. “Come home with me.”

“What?”

“Look. I know you don’t know me. I don’t even know if you swing this way, but just…” George pursed his lips for a minute. “I can’t deal with the look on their faces. Just be my boyfriend for one night.”

“Oh my god.” Clay was laughing. At him.

George took a step back toward him. “Look, what are you gonna do? Spend Christmas at some Holiday Inn? You’re going to be at a meeting, and then probably a plane home during New Years. Don’t you want a nice home-cooked meal?”

Clay wasn’t laughing anymore. He was just staring. George stared back and felt his face heat, sure he was blushing.

“It’s the right thing to do.” George supplied.

“Is it?”

“Okay, well. It’s just a little white-lie. And it’s just perfect. You’re American, you’re going home in a week. We can break up after all this and that’s that.”

Clay hummed a second, clearly turning over the possibility of spending Christmas with a crazy person. George bit his lip.  
“Fine. And for the record, I do swing that way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so we begin! please leave me a comment if you liked this, and tell me your favourite holiday song   
> :)) i'll throw the best ones into the next chapter


	2. Driving Home for Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome wilbur onto the scene!! no we're not in brighton, this is all fiction :))

George followed Clay out of the compartment and into the station in a state of relative bewilderment. He registered the dull clack-clack of the loose wheel on his suitcase where it caught on the tile, and the way Clay kept looking back at him. It was this expression, far too soft for what the moment demanded. George caught up, unable to think of a single intelligent thing to say.   
  


“You’re the one who’s supposed to be leading.” Clay was grinning at him. “Are mumsy and daddy coming to pick us up?”   
  


George knocked their shoulders together and scoffed. “I’m not fourteen. We can take a cab or something.”  
  


“Wow, George. You really know how to treat a guy.”  
  


“Sorry it’s not a limo.” George’s voice was keen, and Clay laughed. It was that same open, unflinching feeling that Clay seemed to emanate. Like he didn’t mind being seen. Like he was asking for George to see, to look.

George looked.

His hood was down now, and his mousey hair was sticking up at odd angles. His eyes were ringed enough for George to guess at sleepless nights, but the smile. His mouth. George quickly looked ahead towards the gates.

It felt strange to be here with someone when he had so expected to be alone. It was another kind of miserable, really. George mulled over his pathetic plan. At the very least, he was sure his parents would like Clay. He was tall and charming and had some job that booked flights for him. He wasn’t perfect, George wasn’t naïve enough to think that, but he was more than George knew he could ever expect. It was safe to think of him like this, with the comfortable notion that in a few weeks, he would leave.

George thought maybe he could get used to people leaving, if he continued on like this. It wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t so terrible to be alone.

He jolted a little as Clay grabbed his hand. His palm was warm and he tugged George forward.

“C’mon, sweetiepie. Don’t get lost.” Clay cooed, and George felt heat wash over him.

“Fuck off. You don’t even know where we’re going.” George said.

“Well I don’t think we’re going into the utilities closet but lead the way, baby.” Clay’s fingers relaxed, but George squeezed his hand and he held on.

“This way.” He turned sharply and marched them off towards a sliding door, Clay behind him, struggling to avoid the faulty wheels of George’s suitcase.

_Through the years_

_We all will be together_

_If the fates allow_

_Hang a shining star_

_Upon the highest bough_

\--

Outside, the snow had settled over everything in white banks. It sagged into slushy trenches on the edges of the poorly plowed roads where tire-tracks had worn through. His parent’s town wasn’t quite rural, but it was telling that it only had one supermarket. George tugged them along to the curb and released Clay’s hand. He flexed his fingers, feeling the absence acutely.

“So, you gonna hail us a cab?” Clay was peering down the empty street, clearly taking in the closed shop-fronts decked out in tinsel and holly.

  
“Something better.” George hummed and pulled out his phone.

“A limo after all? Georgy you’re spoiling me.” Clay preened, leaning into George’s face. George took a step back and held up a hand, brushing him off. He pressed the phone to his ear.

“Wilbur? Yeah. I’m in town. Just for the holidays. Listen, can you come get me at the station? Right, sure. That’s fine. I’ve got, uh…Well I have someone with me. No. Okay, see you then.”

Clay was watching him when he tucked his phone back into his pocket. “I’m guessing Wilbur isn’t your dad.”  
  
“No. Just a friend. He’s gonna give us a ride to my parent’s.” George fiddled with his zipper and then looked up.

“Is he in on this? Does he know…?” Clay waved his hand between them.

“No. Wilbur’s a good mate but he’s not a good secret keeper. So…” George hesitated, steeling himself. “You’ll have to be, y’know, in front of him.”  
  
“Your boyfriend?” Clay supplied, swinging an arm around George’s narrow shoulders. “Oh boy, my debut!” He was taking this in stride, at least, George thought. Then again, there wasn’t much riding on it for him either. “So what should I know, how did we meet, what’s your favorite flower?”  
  


“My favorite what?” George narrowed his eyes.

  
“Flower. So mine is daisies and I’m thinking we met online. And it’s been long-distance and that’s why you haven’t told them much about me, but you’re madly in love and so we simply had to spend the holidays together. Wait, are they expecting the invisible person? Or?”   
  
“No, no, just. Someone. Nothing particular. Daisies?” It was sort of fitting, George thought. Bright and simple. Not that Clay was simple, he just didn’t make things complicated. George was used to complicated. To having to ask for things in just the right way, to finding the right way to be himself for people.   
  
“Yes. They’re pretty. So we met on what, tinder passport?” Clay was clearly looking for input.

“Uhm.” George stalled brilliantly. “Or like. Maybe we were friends and then…”

  
“Online friends?”  
  
“Yeah. It’s just. Nobody would believe me if I said tinder.” George mumbled into the collar of his coat.

Clay tightened his arm around his shoulders. “Why not?”  
  
“Do I look like the kind of person you would swipe right on?” He laughed a little and looked down the street for Wilbur’s car. Nothing.

“Yeah.” It was just a word, but it made George’s chest fire up that same way it had on the train. All pins and needles and hot cocoa.

“Good acting, Wilbur’ll definitely buy that.” Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Clay started a little at the beep of a car and George smiled.

“Hop in, Gogy.” Wilbur leaned out of the driver’s side. Fucking hell. Gogy. That was one thing George didn’t miss about his hometown.

“Shall we, Gogy?” Clay was beaming something wild, eyebrows arched in mockery. He stepped onto the street and held open the back door with a bow of his head. “After you.”  
  
George slid into the seat of the unremarkable sedan, and Wilbur fixed him with a look. “What kind of clown have you picked up, George?” The warm sounds of the BBC bounced around the interior, accompanied by the rushing of the dusty heaters.  
  
“Ehm, well.” George said intelligently. Clay quickly followed, legs bumping up against his as they piled into the bench seat.   
  
“I’m Clay, the boyfriend.” And Clay was reaching forward with his hand out to shake.

“Alright, Clay the boyfriend. Clay the American boyfriend.” Wilbur said slowly, eyes flicking between the extended hand and George’s uneasy expression. “You can keep that, thanks.” He said and turned back to face the road.

“Okay!” Clay said, not put off in the slightest. He cast George an evaluating look. “So, Wilbur. Thanks and all that.”  
  
“Yeah, thanks Will.” George added. “Sorry about…this.”  
  
“Am I a ‘this’ now?” Clay leaned over, cheek practically brushing George’s. “Not darling?”  
  
“I would never call you darling.” George scoffed, and pushed him off.

“You’re gross. Both of you.” Wilbur said as he pulled into the street. “And I’ll have no weird PDA in my vehicle, thank you.”  
  
“Not a problem, Wi-“ George flinched as Clay squeezed himself back into George’s space. “Knock it off, weirdo.”  
  
“Ah, there it is. Weirdo.” Clay looked genuinely endeared and George firmly fixed his eyes out the window. He could hardly tell if Wilbur believed this or not, and Clay seemed keener to have a laugh about it than play the part. He chewed his lip.

“Clay,” George sighed, shifting a little in his seat. “I know you’re nervous, but seriously. They’re going to love you.”  
  
“Mmmm…” George could feel Clay’s intense stare. “Maybe I’d feel better if you held my hand.”  
  
“Oh, vomit. Gag.” Wilbur cried from the front. “I should pull over and make you walk.”  
  
“As long as I have my Gogy to keep me warm.” Clay laughed. His hand wormed its way between them and clasped George’s own. He squeezed once.

“What do you even see in him, George?” Wilbur was joking, but George felt Clay’s hand go a little slack.   
  
“He’s good to me.” George said, refusing to look at Clay. He knew he was going red.

“And where’d you pick up this yank?”   
  
“Online.” George said. “He was…we were friends. Are. It just…”

“It just happened naturally. One day we were friends and the next…” Clay was looking at George in that soft open way again. “The next day we were more.”

More. George closed his eyes for a second. He’d never imagined he’d find the word _more_ so incredibly significant, but when Clay said it...

“I didn’t think it was going to work.” George started. “He’s just so…” He struggled to find the words. What was it that drew him to Clay? His laugh. George wanted to say his laugh, but as he watched Wilbur’s head bob to the quiet radio, he knew that wouldn’t score him any points.   
  
“American?” Wilbur offered.

“Different from me.” George twisted their joined hands. It felt natural. “But he surprised me.”

“So here you are.”  
  
“So here we are.” Clay echoed and tipped his head onto George’s shoulder. “Meeting the parents.”

“Mmm…” Wilbur hummed, looking at them through the rearview. “Best of luck.”

“Thanks.”

  
George closed his eyes and the car turned down a long winding street. Clay’s cold nose was pressed right below his ear, but he couldn’t find it in himself to push him off.

_I'm driving home for Christmas_

_Oh, I can't wait to see those faces_

_I'm driving home for Christmas, yea_

_Well I'm moving down that line_

_And it's been so long_

_But I will be there_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter we'll encounter some of George's family. i feel weird about doing research or using any real life stuff so consider any family george has to be my own invention/fiction. dont wanna be invasive
> 
> if you enjoyed, leave me a comment! i reply to every one.
> 
> also tell me your favourite christmas songs or lyrics! I add ones i like into every chapter :))


	3. I'll be home for Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> George's mum appears :)  
> I don't plan on this being a family-centric fic, but they'll be here.

Clay was pressed almost entirely against George, from the point where their knees touched all the way to where he’d tucked his face into George’s collar. He couldn’t find it in himself to panic. The shit-show that lay ahead was more than enough to set his teeth on edge, and he supposed he should be more appreciative of Clay’s act.

  
Wilbur seemed convinced enough and didn’t question them much more than asking what station they’d like to listen to. George offered something quietly non-committal and Wilbur fiddled with the knob until a quiet Christmas carol puffed out.

_It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas_

_Toys in every store_

_But the prettiest sight to see is the holly that will be_

_On your own front door_

Outside, the houses grew stouter as they left the main thoroughfare. They were less self-conscious, more spaced out with old, home-made climbing frames and swing sets. The light was dipping into the half-grey, half-orange warmth of winter evening, and George could make out the soft holiday lights where they poked out.

Clay stirred a little against him and George shushed him. “Nearly there.” Maybe it’s jetlag, he thought. Maybe he’s cold.

The tires of Wilbur’s sedan crackled as they pulled up the gravel drive. Through the windshield, George saw his parent’s house unfold. It was a ruddy orange brick, with wide windows that his Dad had clearly decked out in all their best festive décor. There was a snowman with a stupid expression leering at him.

George nudged Clay, tilting his head up with a hand beneath his chin. “C’mon, Clay. Showtime.” He mumbled into the space between them.   
  
Clay’s eyes scrunched shut before they opened wide, blinking owlishly. “Sure, yeah.” He grunted, swinging an arm above his head.

Wilbur watched them through the rearview. “Give ‘em hell.” He said solemnly. “And happy Christmas and all that.”

“’Course Will.” George returned, and swung the door open. A shock of cold air punctured the accumulated warmth of the car, and Clay whined.

“I hate cold.” Clay’s expression was sour, and George hauled him out after him.

“Well, unless you want to spend your holiday in Wilbur’s backseat, you’ll make the short trip to the front door, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

George smoothed down his jacket, listening as Wilbur pulled out of the laneway. The moment of truth, he supposed, and looked Clay over one final time. His tall, loud, American sweetheart. Would the lie even last past the front door?

Clay looped an arm around George’s middle and cold air ghosted around his mouth as he spoke. “So, you have doorbells or are we meant to barge in?”

“For God’s sake.” George grumbled, and reached for the knob. He poked his head past the doorframe. “Mum? Da? We’re home.”  
  
“Home,” Clay repeated quietly, pulling the door the rest of the way open. “I guess we are.”

George’s Mum appeared in the hall, brushing her hands off on her apron. “George.” She said warmly and wrapped her arm around his shoulders quickly. The hug was short, but he could smell the shortbread wafting off her. “And? Is this…?” She continued, taking in his tagalong.

“Clay,” He’d held his hand out to shake, and she took it. “I’m George’s boyfriend.”  
  
“Oh, well. American.” She said, “George, you didn’t say American.”  
  
“Surprise.” George deadpanned, and extricated himself from Clay to unzip his coat. “They do still celebrate Christmas, mum. Don’t worry.”  
  
“Yeah. And I’m just stoked to meet George’s family.” Clay’s smile was a thousand-watt thing, and George had to look away. He toed off his boots, sliding them onto the matt.

“And we’re just ‘stoked’ to have you.” His mum raised her eyebrows, skeptical. “I’m Jane and Malcolm’ll be down in a minute.” She gave Clay one final once-over and turned back toward the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on. What do you take, Clay? Milk, sugar?”  
  
“Just milk.”

“Right answer, dear.” She called back and disappeared.

George let out a heavy breath, and Clay lay a heavy hand on the back of his neck. “I passed.” He grinned.

“Looks like it.” He tilted his chin to look up at Clay. There was genuine happiness there, and George had a hard time not matching it. “C’mon then, get your boots off and we can get settled.”

\--

Hands warmed from a welcome cup of tea; George let out an even breath. The initial introduction had gone off without a hitch. Clay talked around the difficult parts and was just as distracting and disarming as George had first thought. He’d complimented his mum’s baking and offered to help his Dad hang the last of the lights off the eaves. It was textbook. It was what everyone wanted, that much George could admit. It was what he had wanted, just…not with him.

Clay was unpacking his toothbrush and razor in the bathroom across the hall. George stood in the doorway of his bedroom, trying to make sense of the sleeping arrangements. He used to share his room with his brother and his mum, in a good-natured attempt at appeasing him, had pushed the two twin beds together. The frames were snug, and a queen duvet thrown over the both of them. George cringed.

Clay appeared behind him, dropping his chin onto George’s shoulder. “Mmm...Cozy.”

“You don’t snore, do you?” George whined.

“No, but I’m a cuddler.” Clay snickered and pressed a firm to his cheek. George slapped a hand over it and glared.

  
“What the h-“  
  
“George? How’d you like your room, how’s the bed situation? Alright?” His mum’s voice rang from behind them and George wheeled around.

“Uhm.”  
  
“Oh it’s just great, Jane. Thanks for accommodating us.” Clay said sweetly.

“Yeah.” George grunted and strode further into the room. “Clay, shut the door, will you?”  
  
“Oh sure, Gogy.” George wanted to pummel his smug face, but instead sat down heavily on the mattress.

“Right. What was that little performance, then?” George asked, eyebrows drawn together.

“Your mum was there, and you seem to be having a hard time doing the whole boyfriend thing. Consider it a distraction.”  
  
And consider me distracted, George thought. “You kissed me.” He said sharply. Clay crossed the room and sat beside him. Their knees knocked.

“Hardly.”  
  
“You did. And-“

“That wasn’t a kiss.” Clay’s eyes were bright. And they were so green. His leg was warm against George’s. “This is a kiss.”

It was a quiet thing, just the press of his lips at the corner of George’s own. They were warm, and then they were gone.

“Oh.” George blinked slowly. “Yes. That was a kiss.” Warmth crept up the neck of his sweater and he cleared his throat.

“And now you can quit looking at me like I’m an alien every time I touch you.” Clay said as if it was as simple as that. As if somehow this one kiss gave George a tolerance. As if the warmth of it was something he could move on from.

  
Clay was looking at him, just the slightest round worry in his eyes.

George wanted to disappear, but he just grabbed Clay’s hand in his own. “Just warn me next time.” He said quietly.

“What, like ask?” His voice was smiling. “Can I kiss you?”  
  
“Yes.” George said quickly. “I mean, yes, ask.” He stood up and crossed the room to the little dormer window. The snow had picked up now and the sun had set winter early. Pearls of it caught the light that spilled out of the houses, then settled into the wide white expanse. It was pretty, George thought vaguely.

A lone figure clad in an orange ski-jacket plowed through the snowy side-walk, tugging along an apprehensive black dog. George didn’t envy them.

_In the air there's a feeling of Christmas_

_Children laughing, people passing_

_Meeting smile after smile_

_And on every street corner you hear_

“Stalker.” Clay spoke from behind him. George scoffed. “What do you see?”  
  
“Nothing.” George turned back to face him. “Dinner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well thats that lol
> 
> Remember to send me your favourite christmas songs/lyrics to include in the chapter!


	4. somewhere in my memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, i'm sorry!! i was busy drawing all day.
> 
> i think you'll find its um,,, still worth it lmao

George carved out a bite of Christmas ham, and smeared it into his mash. The room was dark, no light save for the candles dotted around the table and the barest twinkle from the fairy lights outside. His family’s faces were illuminated in the warm yellow of it, carving shadows out in their cheeks and sparking fire-warm in their eyes. Clay was across from him, grin reflecting it all back at him.

“Well, you know our George, it takes a crowbar to get anything out of him. We’re just glad you made it all this way, Clay.” His dad was saying and passed along the beans.

“Mm, it just made sense, seeing as we’re so serious now.” George lifted his head at Clay’s response. Their eyes met over top the candle flame and George felt all the heat of it between them.

“How in the world you young people handle all this distance, I don’t know.” His mum murmured around a glass of wine. “Must take a lot of phone-calls.”

“Well, Clay is quite the talker, so it’s not so hard.” Clay’s foot nudged his under the table at that and George smiled.

_Candles in the window_

_Shadows painting the ceiling_

_Gazing at the fire glow_

_Feeling that gingerbread feeling_

George’s younger brother, Simon, was staring. They were only a year apart, but Simon had always been first at everything. It made George feel like something of a failure when Simon had the first girlfriend, got the first Real Job and all that. Wasn’t it his job as an older brother? Wasn’t there some unwritten rule?   
  
He was a solicitor and he lived in London and George loved him too much to be angry but not enough not to be jealous. Still, sitting next to Clay who towered over every one of them, George felt that small sense of due superiority trickle back. So he lifted his chin and held his hand out.  
  
“Can you pass me the gravy, Clay?”  
  
“Of course.” His “boyfriend” replied dutifully and placed it in his hand. George set it down on the table and reached out to squeeze Clay’s hand.   
  
“Thanks.”

\--

The water was hot against George’s palms where he scrubbed. Clay had volunteered them for the dishes and while George was grateful he was playing the part of doting boyfriend, he didn’t much enjoy the chores that came with. Clay was drying the dishes beside him, reaching the top shelves easily.

The rest of them had gone for a walk to see the town’s Christmas tree, leaving the two of them with promises to be back in an hour and “no funny business”. George had scoffed, but Clay had just grinned like he always did.

Maybe it was an American thing, to be able to smile through any amount of awkwardness. George passed Clay a wet glass and watched as his fingers dipped inside, swiping the tea towel. The way he’d figured out where everything went without asking made George nervous. It was this dedication to the part, the forwardness of it all, that George didn’t know how to deal with.

“You’re doing so well with them. I reckon they think we’re gonna be married with children within the year.” George teased gently.

“Mmm, that might be a bit above my pay-grade, but for you, George? I’ll think about it.”  
  
“Right. Marriage is a sham and all that.” George squirted more dishsoap into the sink.

“Yeah.” Clay said it slowly. “All that.”

George regarded him in the dim kitchen light. He was focused so completely on the task, nose scrunched up so the freckles there bunched. Something in the way he took it so seriously, in how he channeled all that energy into one thing, made George blush.

Was he that thing, right now? Did this scheme take up half as much room in Clay’s mind as his own?

“Need to switch?” Clay asked, and his gaze was suddenly returned.

“No, no.” George couldn’t look away. “It’s just I was thinking about before.”  
  
“Before?” Clay set down his cloth and wiped his hands on his jeans, crowding George against the counter. It made his heart stutter, and the steam of the water cloying.   
  
“Lying to my whole family?” George tried for a smile. “I mean, it’s a thrill, sure, but if you’re uncomfortable or anything-“  
  
“Did I seem uncomfortable?” Clay’s voice was serious. George’s mouth felt dry and he cleared his throat.

“No.”

“Then stop worrying about me.” Clay reached for the dish towel again. “Besides, I don’t think it’s my performance you need to worry about.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You just seem a little tense is all.” Clay stacked a set of bowls and set them aside.

George’s face heated and he was glad to be facing the sink and not him. “What the hell am I supposed to do when a giant, American movie-star is putting the moves on me?”

Clay’s laugh rang out in the tiny kitchen. “Putting the moves on you?” He snapped the towel in the air. “George, you think one kiss and a little hand holding is _the moves_?”

“Well it’s not exactly platonic, is it?”

“It’s all acting.” The sounds of dishes paused again, and George set down his sponge to listen to him. Clay put a hand on George’s arm and pressed him back against the sink. They were face to face, and the look in Clay’s eyes was dark and quiet. “This?” His hand slid to George’s neck. “Acting.”  
  
“Yeah?” George’s voice was shaky.

“Mhm.” Clay hummed, dipping his head to nose around George’s neck. “Let’s give them something to believe.” George nodded and Clay’s lips were on his neck. Just a kiss, then another until his mouth opened and _Oh._

He was mouthing, open and hot against his skin, and this was acting. George felt a buzzing sort of heat in his chest, where Clay’s other hand was pushing him back against the counter. “Clay,” he breathed, gripping the edge of it tightly.

Clay just nipped him and continued, eyelashes fluttering along the bruised skin.   
  
“Clay,” George repeated. “Off. Get off.” He managed; his voice hoarse.

When he lifted his head, George wanted to take it back. Clay’s lips were wet, and his hair was poking out in all directions. There was warmth in his cheeks and something in the way that he looked at George. He was the center of Clay’s focus at that second, George realized. It was like the sun in the middle of winter, white-hot and consuming.

“We have to do the dishes.” George said quickly and turned away. He held the sponge aloft, too dizzy to remember what it was for. “We have to, or they’ll get ideas.”  
  
Clay’s voice was rough and so close. “I think they’re going to have ideas anyways, George.” And he was tracing out a sore spot on his neck and George wanted to melt.

“Right. Still.” George murmured incoherently.

“On it.”

_They say that things just cannot grow_

_Beneath the winter snow,_

_Or so I have been told._

_They say were buried far,_

_Just like a distant star_

_I simply cannot hold._


	5. The Night before Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> george and clay don't let the bed bugs bite.
> 
> clay enjoys some english sausage LMAO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys im running out of christmas carol lyrics help me

Clay flopped headfirst onto the bed, his long arms spreading across both mattresses. “That bad?” George said around a mouthful of toothpaste.

  
Clay lifted his head, eyes bleary. “You’ve heard of jet-lag, George?”

“In passing, yes.” He’d never been out of the country himself, far too busy with the whole school, job, retire path he was on. He spat his mouthful of foam into the sink.

  
“What, you’ve never left a timezone?”  
  
“Believe it or not, Clay, we don’t all have people to book our flights.” George scowled.

“Mmm,” Clay was wiggling out of his jeans, refusing to even stand up. “You’d love it. The people watching on planes is unmatched. Nine hours of it.”

Something in his stomach twisted at the idea of Clay remembering his little hobby. George stared at himself in the mirror for a second. At the stubble starting to fill in from that morning, the heavy eyebrows. All these parts of himself he didn’t know how to add up into a whole.  
  
When he turned back to face him, Clay was sprawled out across the bed still, significantly less clothed. George couldn’t help but remember the way that lanky body had pressed up against his own. He shivered and yanked open his suitcase for a sleep shirt.

“Sorry about Simon, by the way. He can be a real piece of work.” George mumbled as he tugged out a worn blue one. “All the questions, I know it’s annoying.”

“I think he’s just looking out for his big brother.” Clay said softly, tapping out something on his phone. A Christmas carol puttered out of the crappy speaker and he set it on the nightstand. “Besides, if I had a problem, I’d say so. You know me.” His teeth glinted in the low light. “I don’t bite my tongue.”  
  
“No. You don’t.” George was glad that Clay was staring at the ceiling and not at him. He sent a tiny thank you to the dorky glow stars affixed there and rubbed a hand over his red face. God, he didn’t want to be thinking about that Clay’s mouth, not when they were about to be a foot apart all night.

“And you like that, admit it.” Clay’s voice had a teasing lilt, verging on smug.

“Why are you like this.” George groaned and slipped on a warm pair of pyjama bottoms. When he looked back, Clay was grinning unabashedly.

“Preserving your dignity, Gogy?”

“I’m saving myself until marriage, you know.” He crossed the room and sat. The bedspread was plaid with little bears tucked among the crisscrosses.

“But marriage is a sham.” Clay smirked and lifted the covers.

“Then I’m afraid you’ll never see what lies beneath the sacred garb.” George said loftily and slid in beside him.

“I think I’ll manage.” Clay clicked off the light and tapped off the music.

_Now I need someone to hold_  
_Be my fire in the cold_  
_But it's hard to tell if this is just a fling_  
_Or if it's true love that he thinks of_

\--

When George woke, it was to soft grey light and a warm pressure at his back. He shifted a little, tucking the blanket under his chin and closing his eyes for just a minute more. Christmas could wait.

He might have stayed there if it weren’t for the puff of breath against the back of his neck.

George blinked as the rest of his body woke up. Clay’s face was hidden in the nook between his neck and shoulder, breath still heavy with sleep. His arm was warm around George’s middle, his fingers splayed out underneath the hem of his shirt. His thigh was thrown over-

George’s breath hitched a little and he halted that train of thought.

He tried to gently pry himself out of the hold, wishing for Clay to just stay sleeping. For this to be simple. But as soon as he lifted his hand, Clay was nuzzling into his neck. George listened as the deep even rhythm of breath stuttered and a groan slipped out of Clay’s lips. The sound was muffled into George’s skin and he shifted, sliding towards the edge of the bed.

“Leggo.” George said groggily, managing to get one leg out from under the covers.

Abruptly, he was released. All the warm weight of Clay retracted in a second. “Oh fuck.” His voice was sleep-hoarse and low, and it made George’s toes curl. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” George managed and wrangled himself the rest of the way out. He willed himself to march right to the bathroom and push the whole morning out of his memory. Still, his eyes caught on the way Clay’s arms arced over his head as he sat up, stretching into the morning light. The way the muscles in his stomach bunched up. How his shoulders had matching freckles.

“M’gonna go brush my teeth.” George grunted and padded out. God he was weak.

“Morning breath.” He heard Clay say. “Good idea.” And then there was six feet of shirtless American looming behind him in the bathroom mirror. George closed his eyes as he brushed, willing to blame it on sleepiness instead of a growing intolerance for Clay’s closeness.

He spat and rinsed and slipped under Clay’s arm while he finished. George took the opportunity to dress mostly uninterrupted, sliding his jumper over his narrow shoulders as Clay joined him.

“Is that a turtle-neck?” Clay asked.

“Why would it be a turtleneck?”  
  
“Uh.”  
  
George poked his head out of the neck hole and looked up at Clay. His eyes were fixed just below George’s chin and it clicked. He slapped a hand over the mark. “Ah.”  
  
“Well, I told you it’d make it believable. Just leave it. Besides, I’m sure they saw it last night anyway.”  
  
“Right.” Clay always managed to reduce George to the same three words, and he felt a nervous queasiness settle in his stomach. “Wanna get breakfast out? Full English and all that?”  
  
“I think dates are supposed to be _before_ you sleep with me, George.”

“Gross. Come on.”

\--

“That’ll be all then, George?”

“Yeah, thanks.” George said and handed back the menu to Toby. He was a half foot taller than the last time he’d seen him, with the same sunny, nervous demeaner. The uniform was ill-fitting clearly unable to keep up with the growth-spurt.

“Great. Be a minute then.” Toby gave a little salute and scampered off to hand the order in. George recognized the other waiter at the counter by his shock of blonde hair and smiled.

“This’ll be interesting.”  
  
“Yeah?” Clay asked and poured an absurd amount of cream into his coffee.

“Ew.” George sipped his own. “Toby and Tommy. Simon and I used to baby-sit them in Year 10.”

“You baby-sat?” Clay laughed, his green eyes crinkling.  
  
“Ten bucks was ten bucks. Toby wasn’t so bad anyway, but Tommy… I should have charged fifty.” George grunted and tore open a packet of sugar. He poured it into his open mouth.

Now it was Clay’s turn to be disgusted. “You have issues.” He laughed.

“Clearly. I was dating an invisible person, let’s not forget.”  
  
“Mmm…Yes there’s definitely a screw loose up there.”

Toby returned and slid two steaming plates of breakfast onto the table. Bacon and sausage piled high over two steaming sunny eggs. Fried tomatoes and beans and a slice of perfectly golden toast. George felt himself smile and he grabbed his fork. “Thanks, Tubbo.”

Toby ducked his head, red splotching his cheeks. “Yeah, sure. Happy Christmas.” And retreated.

“You just called that kid Tubbo.” Clay said slowly, an impish look on his face. He was slicing into the sausage slowly.

“Oh shit.” George speared a tomato and laughed. “Childhood nickname, my bad.”  
  
“Poor kid.” Clay said without an ounce of sympathy.

_Those Christmas lights_  
_Light up the street_  
_Down where the sea and city meet_  
_May all your troubles soon be gone_  
_Oh, Christmas lights, keep shining on_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is called mistletoe and wine :)) and ideas on what that will mean??
> 
> i know a lot of fic readers are feeling down or conflicted ab the whole HW thing, but chin up! everything is going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a kudos, it helps me out a ton! u can do it, even if u dont have an account!  
> if you post ab this on twitter/ig etc thats totally fine! just b respectful. if you link me ur post, i'd love to see  
> dont forget to comment <33333


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